


Fall Away (If Only We Were That Lucky)

by EternalDust



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Heavily implied FTM China, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, This fic is pro-communist and if that bugs you then don't read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 07:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalDust/pseuds/EternalDust
Summary: World War 2. The CCP didn’t survive the Long March, the Japanese never attacked Pearl Harbor, and Britain never went to war with Nazi Germany. The Soviet Union is left fighting a losing battle against the now heavily concentrated force of the Nazi army, and, with no reason or method to support China in the fight against Japan, the Japanese are allowed to make their way across Asia undeterred. It’s the summer of 1944, and Ivan asks Kiku to let him meet with Yao, who has been Kiku’s captive since 1938, for one last time.





	Fall Away (If Only We Were That Lucky)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, old Hetalia fan here (by that I mean from like 2012-2014 or so), recently got back into some of the fandom stuff as a metaphor for discussing history in more detail. This fic is an expression of that. It's probably not terribly easy to read if you don't already know a pretty large amount about WWII in Asia, the Chinese Civil War, etc., but I hope those of you who are willing to give it a read will find it interesting.

It’s a sign of how bad the prognosis for the USSR—and all of the other nations still fighting against the Axis Powers—has gotten that Kiku’s even agreed to this. It isn’t an unreasonable demand, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s the kind of request that Ivan would never have dared to make even six months ago. Kiku weighs decisions carefully, the same way that they all must in times of war, and he’d come to the conclusion that the possible damage was so minimal as to be not worth considering, even when there was nothing for Kiku to gain in return.

Ivan taps his toes against the floor and hesitantly takes a sip of the tea that one of the servants had offered him when he’d been escorted in. The room he was in was styled in a traditional Japanese fashion, a few hints of the Westernization that Japan had been going through over the past century seeping into the decorating here and there. He is alone, in this room, and while the décor may be traditional the walls are far too thick to be anything but made for war.

The only door in the room opens, and Ivan’s head snaps to the side to see first Kiku, then Yao, come through the door. Kiku is wearing the same crisply ironed military uniform that he seems to be wearing every time Ivan sees him, his smirk as triumphant and his eyes as dead as ever. It’s only been a few months since the last time Ivan has seen him—they are not formally at war against each other, of course, even if they are clearly on different sides of this conflict—and he does not seem to be any worse for the wear. If anything, he seems stronger, more confident. Unsurprising. He is winning the war in Asia, crushing any resistance that the less-wealthy countries in his wake are capable of mustering. By the time this is over, he will have rule over everything east of India that doesn’t have an American or British warship in its harbor.

Yao, on the other hand. Ivan hasn’t seen him since 1937, a few months before Kiku had captured him and taken him as a personal prisoner. He’d looked healthy, then, not well, but healthy. Now, Ivan can clearly see the signs of captivity and abuse. He is slimmer, the robes hanging limply from his body where he’d once had slight curves, both from masculine muscle and feminine fat. He is paler, too, the lively tan replaced by an ashen gray that only seems to get deeper and darker beneath his eyes, from what Ivan can see of them with the way that Yao is careful to keep his head down. And the marks—Ivan had guessed at what he’d see, but he never imagined that he would see so many bruises and cuts and scars littered across Yao’s skin, even with so much of his body still covered.

Kiku sits down across from Ivan, on a small wooden couch that matches the one Ivan himself is seated on. Yao kneels beside Kiku on the floor, despite the empty space left on the couch. He has not looked directly at Ivan since he entered. Probably an order from Kiku. Ivan imagines there are a lot of those that Yao must follow. Kiku seems, at least since his militarization, like a man that does not do well without total control.

“I hope your journey here was smooth,” Kiku says, one hand taking hold of the tea cup that’s been set on his side of the table. The other hand curls in Yao’s hair, fingers combing through the top few inches of the hair at the back of Yao’s head.

“It was, thank you,” Ivan politely answers. He would’ve said it either way. Kiku is not here for conversation or for sympathy. He is here to intimidate Ivan, and then he will leave.

Kiku nods and takes a sip of his tea, his other hand keeping Yao’s head down. He’d twitched, for a second, when Ivan had spoken. “You wanted two hours, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be back in two hours, then,” Kiku says. He stands, fingers still caught in Yao’s hair, forcing the older to stand with him. When he and Yao are standing eye to eye, he pulls the other in to kiss him. Undeniably performative. Ivan may not know Kiku well, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand that a kiss like that is meant more as a show of power than it is meant as a random expression of affection. It is violence. When Kiku pulls back, he whispers something in Yao’s ear before walking to the door.

Yao stays frozen, not even allowing himself to show signs of breathing, until the door slams shut behind Kiku, the outside lock clicking into place. He crumples, then, seeming to fall in on himself. His knees hit the floor with a sound that hurts merely to hear, and Ivan is out of his seat and rushing to kneel at Yao’s side. He goes to put his hand on Yao’s shoulder but realizes, at the last second, that that might only make it worse.

“Ivan,” Yao breathes out, after a second, his eyes focused on the floor in front of him.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?” Yao finally looks up to meet his eyes. He is crying. “Why did Kiku let you come here?”

Ivan tilts his head and squints his eyes. “You don’t—He didn’t tell you about what’s going on with the war, did he?”

“What war—” Yao takes a deep breath, and he reaches out to take one of Ivan’s hands in his own. “Ivan, all I know about are the Japanese invasions in Asia. I don’t even know what year it is anymore.”

Ivan bites his lip. He knew he’d have to explain some things, but he wasn’t expecting to have to explain the entire war. “It’s 1944. I’m at war with Germany, technically Italy as well but they don’t do much. They invaded on our Western border three years ago. I’m not at war with Japan, but Germany and Japan are in an alliance so I may as well be.”

“Then why—” Yao’s voice gets quieter. He understands, as well as Ivan does, that something must be terribly wrong for Kiku to allow this. “Why are you here?”

Ivan runs his thumb over the back of Yao’s hand, like he’d done before, in the 1920’s and early 30’s, when their leaders had had enough shared interests for them to see each other relatively often. Yao had not been okay in the 1920’s, either. Yao hasn’t been okay for a long time. “Because I’m losing the war. It will all be over soon.”

Yao shakes his head. “No, it can’t—”

“I’m so sorry,” Ivan says, leaning away from Yao and against the little table in the middle of the room. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you.”

“Don’t—” Yao takes a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. I already knew my fate. I’m just sad to hear yours.”

Ivan bites his lip. He never likes seeing Yao resigned to anything. “And what is your fate?”

Yao looks down. “As a nation, to be subjugated. Perhaps I should just be happy that the Japanese have driven the Europeans from my shores. Except—”

“Except for Hong Kong and Macau.”

“Yes,” Yao replies. “Except for them.”

Ivan remembers the conversations he and Yao had had, years ago, when he’d sat beside Yao in an open field in Hunan and Yao had told him about how his three children were taken from him one by one. It was one of those things—among others—which had made Yao the way that he is now. Hollow.

“At least you have your daughter with you,” Ivan says.

Yao withdraws his hand from Ivan’s grasp. “She’s here,” he says, “but Kiku doesn’t let me talk to her. I see her in the hallways, occasionally at meal times, or when I look out the window and I see Kiku playing with her. But when she looks at me—it doesn’t even seem like she really sees me. It’s like I’m a ghost.”

“You look like one,” Ivan says, half-jokingly. It manages to draw a laugh from Yao, even a bitter one, so Ivan counts it as a success. “You only said your fate as a nation. What about you as a person?”

Yao looks away. “I’m sure you can guess.”

“Tell me,” Ivan says. “As much as you’re willing to.”

He bites his lip, but he looks Ivan in the eye as he speaks again. There is a pain in those eyes, and Ivan almost wishes that he had not asked. “Kiku claims that he has me here for my protection, but all he ever does is use me. It’s like—” He takes a deep breath. “When he was young, I always thought Kiku looked up to me. But it seems like, now…”

He trails off, and Ivan decides to reach out for his hand again. Yao leans into his touch, and soon Yao is leaning against Ivan’s chest, his head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Ivan says. “I don’t want to make you hurt anymore.”

Yao is silent for a moment, but he continues. “Kiku wants to hurt me. Whether it’s out of jealousy or desire or something else entirely, I’m not sure. But there’s no other explanation for what he does to me.”

Ivan is not sure if he wants to hear what Kiku does. He can imagine, certainly, between the cuts and bruises and the way that Yao seems so frightened around Kiku, he can imagine it. He does not want to have his imagination confirmed. “Is it worse than what the Europeans did?”

“Yes,” Yao says. “Partially because I thought I had taught him better.”

When they’d first talked about it, nearly two decades ago, Yao had been almost forgiving of the Europeans. Dismissive, yes, patronizing, undeniably, but forgiving, nonetheless. _“They don’t understand what they’re doing,”_ Yao had said, _“they don’t understand what culture is. Neither my old ways nor the ways of the revolution.”_ Yao had always been more sympathetic to the radical ideas that his people had espoused, and it had been those ideas and those revolutionaries that had driven him into Ivan’s arms in the first place. He’d not been the same since 1934.

“It must be hard,” Ivan says, “to be treated this way and violated by someone you thought you knew.”

“He did it before,” Yao replies. “I knew he was capable of it. Just not this, this violently, perhaps. I did not think he would have the will or energy to sustain it for such a long time.”

Ivan’s arm wraps around Yao’s waist. He is careful not to put too much pressure—he does not know what bruises lie beneath the fabric of Yao’s robes. “And what will you do? Now that you know your fate?”

“I only have two choices, don’t I?”

Ivan breathes out lowly, trying to keep his breathing slow and calm. Yao has always told him that he likes to feel the fall and rise of his chest, that it makes him feel at peace. For a nation with such a large area and population, Yao has always been so little. It triggers something in Ivan, making him feel like he needs to protect the elder, even though he knows that Yao does not need it. Yao has always been stronger than him, emotionally, and many times he has proven himself physically stronger as well. Now, though, it seems like the elder could barely lift a hand to stop someone from just taking what they wanted. “Which two choices are those?”

“I either continue to suffer in the hope that one day I will be free again,” Yao sighs, “or I accept that my time has finally come, and I kill myself so that Kiku cannot do it first.”

Nations do not die, when they become subjugated, and they cannot die, when they are free. It is only when the nation is killed, by themselves or others, at the same time that their people are subjugated, that they can ever truly die. Yao could die, now, if the harm done to his body would kill a human. Ivan could not die, not yet, but he does not imagine that it is far off.

“Which option will you choose?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Yao wraps an arm around Ivan, leaning even closer into his touch. “I want to live. I want to hope for the future. But somedays it’s difficult to imagine that future ever coming.”

Ivan breathes out a long sigh. “I will not blame you if you choose to go. But I am still so afraid of being on this earth without you.”

Yao laughs. “You were alive for centuries before you knew me. You will survive.”

“I was a child, then,” Ivan replies. “I was alone, but I was protected. There were no guns, at least not the type they have now, and there were no bombs, and my people were safe. The winter was enough to ward off anyone who came looking to conquer.”

Yao is silent for a moment, his fingers tapping a little, unfocused pattern against Ivan’s chest while he thinks of his reply. “You are afraid of being captured.”

“Yes.”

Yao smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t be afraid. Even if Ludwig captures you, he will not hurt you the way that Kiku and the Europeans have hurt me. He would not want to.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” Yao says. “Ludwig’s government may be evil, but he is not. That’s more than you can say for most of them.”

Ivan tightens his hand on Yao’s waist, lightly enough that Yao could move away if he wanted to. “You haven’t even seen him in over seven years.”

“And I know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t do it.” Yao takes a deep breath. “He could’ve done to me what the other Europeans did. In 1898, when the German occupation of Qingdao started, the Emperor had me brought to him like he’d done with the others. I was ready for it to happen again, almost numb to it, but he didn’t do it. He sat down with me and talked for an hour or two, and then he left. He didn’t want sex; he didn’t want a child the way the others did. Our governments put us in these positions, but it’s up to us how we respond to them. And he didn’t take advantage of it.”

“You knew him before he was a fascist, though.”

“That’s true.”

They are silent for a few minutes, just thinking. It is not awkward, the silences between their words are rarely awkward for the two of them. Neither of them is the type to speak without realizing implications. Finally, Ivan speaks. “I’m not scared for myself; I don’t think. I’m scared for my people.”

“And I mourn for mine,” Yao replies. “Even the ones I did not like.”

Ivan bites his lip. They have both already lost so much. “What happened to your sister?” Joseon, that’s what they’d called her nation. Ivan had never known her personally enough to know her human name.

“Dead,” Yao says, without a hint of emotion. He’s already accepted it, then. “I’m not sure when, but it was before Kiku captured me. I don’t think he did to her what he’s doing to me, but it’s possible. Especially considering what his soldiers have done to her people.”

“Maybe you will meet her again,” Ivan says, and he does not believe it.

Yao hums. “I thought we agreed that we didn’t believe there’s an afterlife.”

“We did,” Ivan replies, “but we can also agree that sometimes believing in something you know to be false is all that you have left.”

Yao cannot argue against that, even if he wanted to. In their people, hopelessness breeds poison, but in them even the most vivid revolutionary fervor would be meaningless if their people did not share it. They are allowed to be hopeless. One of the perks, perhaps the only perk, of being the way that they are.

“My people won’t give up easily,” Ivan says, after a moment. “They’ve fought bravely, in the years since we were invaded. They’re fighting to defend more than themselves, and that’s the kind of spirit that possesses people to keep fighting. I just don’t know how much longer it will be until there is no more inland territory that my people can escape to.”

They’d moved Jewish populations inland, when they’d been invaded, because they knew that they would be the most in danger if the Germans got to them. But the German government was not just after the Jewish people, even if they were the primary target. Roma people, any other ethnic group the Germans considered inferior, even simply being a _communist_ could lead people to much the same fate. Too many of Ivan’s people fell into a category that could lead to them being tortured and executed for Ivan to believe that they would give up without being forced to do so.

“Your family,” Yao says, after a moment, “how many of them are still alive?”

Ivan bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. He hasn’t seen many of them in over a year, some of them longer. The Baltics, his sisters, the others who were more his comrades than his _family_, there’s a high probability that they’d already been taken captive. He does not know how many of them could survive. He wishes, in hindsight, that he’d insisted they live in Moscow instead of their own nations, but Comrade Stalin had persuaded him it was for the best to let them be with their people. In peace time, he would’ve been correct.

“We could have had the world,” Yao says, quietly, “perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Ivan replies. This is what his authors mean, then, when they speak of tragedy. Hope is won by revolution, and it dies in the quiet moments away from the gunfire. If his hope is to die, perhaps it is best that it dies with Yao. “Even if we will never reach that world, you must know that we tried.”

“You tried,” Yao says. “I never got the chance.”

Ivan had visited Yao for the second to last time before the war in 1934, after the Communists and their soldiers had been all but massacred by the Nationalists. Yao had not sprung to his feet to greet Ivan the way he had once done, he did not even look up as Ivan crossed the threshold into the room. He merely gazed at the piece of paper, a letter, that he held in his hands like he was trying to memorize the words before they disappeared forever. _“How many are left?”_ Ivan had asked. Yao had merely shaken his head in reply. It was more than enough of an answer.

“If you must go,” Ivan says, after a moment has passed, “then I want you to go thinking of the world you would have wished for. The world that we should have had.” Yao hums. “A world free of harm, free of the fascists at our doors and the capitalists at home. Free of empire and exploitation, where our people would be happy enough to let us go silently, in peace.”

It was the ultimate contradiction for them, as people that embodied their nations. They’d wanted the best for their people, but they knew that the only way forward eventually, in some distant future, would lead to their deaths. They would become unnecessary, and like dust they would disappear. Sometimes Ivan thinks that it had actually been one of the reasons that Yao had liked the revolutionaries so much.

“What a world it would have been.” Yao breathes out a shaky breath. “Would you have stayed with me, in that world? Until our people let us go?”

Ivan nods. “I would stay with you for as long as you let me, you know that.”

Maybe in another world they would’ve stayed by each other’s side forever, until that last moment where they had faded away underneath the pure air and the moon-bitten light, or maybe in another world Yao would have forced Ivan away because of some silly reason that drove their leaders apart. Maybe there would be stops and starts, and maybe the path to that shining moment would not be a straight one, but they would get there. In any world but this one, the two of them would get there. And maybe they will die, before this war is over, and someone else will take their place in striving for that beautiful day, and maybe whatever nations are created from their ashes to push the fascists back to their own lands will believe in the same truths they believe. Or maybe that kind of optimism, of sentiment, is only the meaningless coma dream of two doomed men.

“I want,” Yao murmurs, “I want for you to kiss me. Just once. I will die knowing that Kiku doesn’t own me the way he likes to think he does.”

Ivan cannot say no to that. He leans down, and he kisses Yao, ever so gently. Yao’s lips are as soft as they were ten years ago, when he’d still had the taste of salt on his lips because Yao has never cried for himself, only for his people. They are as soft as they were a century ago, when the Xianfeng Emperor had followed in his father’s footsteps and handed Yao over to Ivan to use, and Ivan had simply sat by Yao’s side and talked to him and left with a single kiss. They are as soft as they had felt on Ivan’s forehead, centuries before, when they had both been Mongolian territories and Yao had dared to kneel down in front of the little child and kiss his forehead, the words, “One day you and I will both be free,” falling from his lips even though Ivan had meant nothing to him at the time.

They do not speak again after it is over. Ivan holds Yao against his chest, feeling the older nation’s labored yet peaceful breaths against the ever-worried beat of his own heart, until their time is up and Kiku returns to them. He pulls Yao out of Ivan’s grasp with an almost-amused, dismissive look, and he leads Yao away without further comment.

When Ivan touches down in Moscow, not even a full day later, his officials greet him with a pitying expression and hand him a telegram that has come from Tokyo. Wang Yao has hanged himself. Ivan hopes that he is at peace, and he wishes that his own death will come quicker.


End file.
